by Susan Cox
I was slightly drunk the evening I came to their home in Holland Park to find him, comatose in his studio, covered in blood, with my mother dead at his feet. I pried the bloody knife from his hand, which he barely noticed, and telephoned my grandfather and then the family solicitor, who told me sharply to call the police emergency number. When I opened the front door to the police minutes later, I was confronted by hard-faced officers who wouldn’t let me go back upstairs, one of whom broke my nose when my shocked acquiescence evaporated and I was suddenly struggling and screaming like a banshee. The house filled with people in the next few hours as I was questioned by a series of uniformed, and then plainclothes officers, my clothing replaced with a Tyvek jumpsuit and slippers, my mother’s body taken away and my father cautioned and under arrest. The front page of a national tabloid the next day was a photo of me, wearing the jumpsuit and holding something against my face to stem the bleeding from my nose. The police weren’t particularly sympathetic, and even seemed to take some satisfaction from how far the mighty had fallen and been slain in high places. It took me a while to realize that I was a suspect, having left my fingerprints on the murder weapon, and I was left to the tender mercies of the press. It took the police weeks to investigate my father’s guilt, even after he confessed. The day he was found hanged in his cell, I ran for Heathrow and the first plane leaving the country.
Grandfather’s lunchtime revelations about my mother’s secret life were shedding light into the dark corners of my parents’ lives, and I wasn’t enjoying it much. Even without the resurrection of every emotion I’d spent the last year trying to forget, I’d had a fairly complicated week, one which included finding a dead neighbor, being chased by a gunman, and learning that my family was deeply imbedded in espionage. All of which could be why it took me a while to notice I was being followed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The fog was spreading its cool, damp presence like a living creature, clinging to everything and making the sidewalks glisten. I was an hour from home on one of my nighttime prowls around the city, and I’d more or less decided to tell Nat about my breaking and entering and the files I’d stolen. I was walking along the Embarcadero, near the bow-and-arrow sculpture no one seems to know the name of, enjoying the smell of the damp and salty fog moving off the Bay. At first I just had a prickling sort of awareness of someone else nearby. I looked around casually, because I’m a city girl and it’s smart to be vigilant. I didn’t see anyone, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. As I walked on, although I couldn’t hear them, I could almost feel footsteps behind me.
By the time I was half a block from home, I’d gradually picked up the pace until I felt like one of those race walkers—heel-toe, heel-toe, hips wiggling and elbows flying—but I still hadn’t seen anyone. My nerve broke. I ran up my front steps, fumbled with my key, and slammed the door behind me. I leaned against it for a few seconds to catch my breath and took the inside stairs two at a time. I crossed the front room in the dark and sidled up against the closest window frame. Keeping to one side, I peered down onto the street, almost convinced I’d imagined the whole thing, but as I watched, someone crossed the street and stood in a doorway opposite. He was in deep shadow, his head covered by a hoodie and his hands stuffed in the pockets of a hip-length padded jacket. Next door, I could see Matthew’s legs and bottom half, wrapped tightly in his duvet, emerging from the doorway of Bonbons Chocolat. As I watched, he shifted and rolled over. My shadow didn’t move. I pulled back, leaned against the wall, and tried to catch my breath.
I peered down onto the street again, but the doorway opposite was empty. He was either standing in Aromas’ doorway underneath my perch, or he’d left. It was deeply unsettling to think of him loitering below me, but if he meant harm, I couldn’t leave Matthew out there alone.
Out of habit, when I walked alone at night I carried my keys poking through my fingers like a knuckle-duster, which Nat assured me was called brass knuckles, but sterner methods seemed to be called for. I raced through the apartment and dug out my gun—unfortunately, I still hadn’t taken the marksmanship course that went with it—from its box in my bedroom closet. I stuck it in the back waistband of my jeans, where I hoped it wouldn’t go off accidentally and shoot me in the backside. I took it out and checked the safety again, then replaced it. When on earth had I become a person who took a gun to a—a brass knuckle fight? When had I become a person who took a gun anywhere? I opened my outside door as stealthily as I could and looked in both directions, but I saw no one except for Matthew.
I approached his comforter warily. “Hey, Matthew,” I whispered.
He didn’t move and I heard nothing, just the residue of silence, of something that had been there, and now wasn’t.
“Matthew?”
He shot upright, his eyes wide, and thrashed around in the comforter cocoon until he freed his arms. “Thief! Thief! Thief!” He was shouting
“No, not a thief. It’s just me. It’s Theo, from the soap store.”
I tried to shush him with some “calm down” motions of my arms, which he misread as an invitation to continue fortissimo, because, dear God, he was still shouting. “Theo! Theo! Theo!” He started to pant and I had just enough time to realize I should have left him to sleep peacefully when I heard the pad of running footsteps fading in the distance.
Matthew wouldn’t come indoors, even into the garage, but I was finally able to persuade him to make a nest of his comforter in the tiny paved yard behind Aromas. He insisted on bringing his shopping cart, too. The space was clearly deficient in some way because he wasn’t happy about it, inclined to grumble about thieves, the rattle of the cans in the bottom of his shopping cart, sounding like stage thunder rolling across the dark and empty gardens. I took him a mug of hot milk and a cheese sandwich, and he eventually settled down. He drank the milk and stuck the sandwich in one of the grimy plastic bags hanging from the rope round his waist, and all I could do was hope he didn’t plan to eat it.
I went upstairs. Lucy’s nails clicked on the hardwood as she made her way down the hallway. She waddled in my direction only to discover that, for the umpteenth time in our life together, I had come home without dog treats. She sniffed my hands and huffed her disappointment at me before turning and heading back to bed. I lay on the bed next to her and stared at the ceiling.
My first thought, as always, was for the relentless British tabloid press. A single photo of me on a San Francisco street would blow my carefully crafted new life to smithereens. Paparazzi would be dropping out of trees and camping out on my doorstep to capture the first photos of me since my “mysterious” disappearance from London more than a year before. I resented being afraid, but I was even more puzzled. A nighttime pursuit made no sense. Next, I thought of Sergei Viktor Wolf, because Grandfather had implied that his appearance could mean some sort of danger for me. I didn’t think he’d be able to produce the light, running footsteps I’d heard, carrying his overweight. Besides, if Grandfather had been in touch with him, he’d have no more reason to follow me.
None of my thoughts were conducive to getting any sleep.
Over the next couple of days, with my nerves set on hypervigilant, I thought I identified two men, one slightly taller than the other, and a woman. They wore a variety of hats and scarves, but they were at a disadvantage, since my daytime routine was basically spent in the Gardens, where they couldn’t follow, and on the half block between Aromas and The Coffee, which didn’t leave them much scope for staying incognito. All the same, they didn’t come close enough for me to get a good look at their faces, and they had a talent for melting away if I walked in their direction. Being followed wasn’t a new experience for me, so I thought I knew the difference between seeing someone from the neighborhood a little more often than usual, and pursuit by a stranger. It used to happen a lot but now, when I was living anonymously so far from home, it shouldn’t be happening at all.
I was forced to rethink my assumptions. Tabloid photographers were basic
ally hit-and-run artists and wouldn’t be bothered to follow me for longer than it took to capture a few frames of me looking furtive and anxious, which, frankly, they could achieve anytime they watched me for more than five minutes. So who were they? And, equally important, what did they want? My next guess, that it had something to do with the lawsuit against Aromas, seemed all too possible, and I should probably have thought of that first. Just because Katrina was dead didn’t mean the lawsuit had died with her, and I’d heard nothing, one way or the other. Did private investigators get hired over slip-and-fall lawsuits? And was this how Katrina had discovered what she’d discovered about my life? But if Katrina had hired him, wouldn’t the contract have ended with her death? I’d believed the lawsuit was a personal vendetta, but was the property developer, Amos Noble, somehow involved?
And what could I do about it? My shadow, or shadows, hadn’t threatened me, or even come close to me. And in broad daylight on a busy city street, it seemed somehow embarrassing to make elaborate, or indeed any, preparations for self-defense.
I was wary of telling Grandfather. I was almost sure he wouldn’t think I was imagining ways to include myself in the family business, but it was enough to make me hesitate. He’d just begun to think I was resourceful and brave; it hurt me to think of disappointing him. I couldn’t confide in anyone else. Any sensible person—even Nat—would insist I report it to the police, who were certain to ask me why I thought I was being followed. Explaining without telling them I was living here under an alias would be complicated. I thought of consulting Inspector Lichlyter, who at least knew who I was, but the same lack of concrete evidence applied—no one had approached me, or tried to run me over, or left threatening notes.
But I gave up my late night walks.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I was alone when Gavin Melnik walked into Aromas late one afternoon, about a week after my lunch with Grandfather. He somehow kicked over the basket of natural sponges just inside the door, giving me a quick horrified glance before stooping to right the basket, grabbing an armful of the scattered sponges and tossing them in before making his way over to the counter with a huge one clutched in each hand. He and Katrina both had blonde hair but little else in common as far as I could see. He was nicely put together but without Katrina’s height. Since awkwardness seemed to be his hallmark characteristic, bulletproof self-confidence clearly wasn’t a family trait, either.
I was at a bit of a loss. It seemed a little weird to call my lawyer to ask what I should do with Melnik already in front of me. Did I acknowledge him? Ignore that I knew who he was? He hadn’t spoken to me at Katrina’s memorial or when he’d come to deal with Matthew. Was there some sort of protocol for the interactions between plaintiff and defendant? Was there an established etiquette? We stared at each other like startled meerkats.
Then he cleared his throat. “I’m Gavin Melnik. I wanted to speak to you at Katrina’s memorial, but I was afraid you wouldn’t want me to approach you.” He glanced at the sponges in his hands with what looked like genuine confusion.
When I didn’t immediately reply, he looked away, first to the shelves of gallon jugs of shampoo and body lotion behind me and then up to the ceiling of wildflowers and herbs. Maybe he didn’t remember being in the store before, since he’d been carried into an ambulance on a gurney feetfirst with his eyes closed.
“I remember you,” I said finally. “And I saw you with Matthew the other day.”
He looked puzzled for a second and then his face cleared. “Yeah, I volunteer up at St. Christopher’s. Look, I’m really sorry,” he blurted. He blinked nervously. “The lawsuit wasn’t my idea; Katrina said she would get me twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Judging from his rather shabby varsity jacket, the money would have been welcome. He stood up a little straighter, chin out, his eyes fixed on the wall behind my head. I once read of a soldier executed by firing squad who refused the blindfold he was offered and bravely faced down a firing squad. The irony of course was that he was being executed for cowardice. He must have looked much the same as Melnik, with the same mix of defiance and hauteur in the face of certain death.
“I wanted to, you know, tell you I won’t be continuing the lawsuit,” he said to the wall. “I don’t drink much,” he added confidingly to the counter standing between us, “but it was my birthday and I was out of control that day. The whole thing was my fault.” He transferred both sponges to one hand and pressed them to his chest, then changed his mind and dropped them on the counter. He held out his hand in a tentative sort of way, obviously expecting me to brush him off.
The lawsuit could have been a serious financial drag on the business, which I’m certain Katrina intended. But his apology seemed sincere, and I had enough to do without holding onto a grudge. I extended my hand. His face lit up, and he moved toward me so quickly he knocked the sponges and a box of seashell soaps off the counter. He bent down to pick them up and banged his head on the counter so hard it must have rung like a bell.
“Ow!” He rubbed his head and then darted an anxious look at me. “Don’t worry; I won’t sue.” It was an awkward joke and, given the topic of our conversation, exasperating.
He lurched forward again, this time knocking over a display of candles in small floral tins, but, with some quick sleight of hand, somehow managing to prevent them falling to the floor. He shoved them back into order, then grabbed my extended hand and pumped it vigorously.
“Thank you! Thank you! I’ve been so worried about this. Katrina was…” His voice dropped. “… well, she was very forceful. And I owed her a lot. I don’t know why she didn’t like you.” He paused, perhaps hoping I would enlighten him, and then soldiered on. “I really admire you for standing up to Katrina like you did. But anyway, I was sort of hoping we could be, you know, friendly, if you stop being mad at me.”
I couldn’t decide if that was brazen or courageous, but it surprised me into an amused snort. He puffed out a big breath and he gave me a shy smile. “I thought you might throw me out or call the cops. I’m sorry about spilling everything. I get clumsy when I’m nervous.” He grabbed a couple of stray tins and pushed them back into line with the others. I stuffed the sponges under the counter, next to the box of dusty, gun-shaped soaps I keep out of a sort of nostalgia for my ex-partner, who’d originally bought them.
He hesitated. “Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee? I noticed a coffee shop down the block and it would mean a lot to me to talk to someone who knew Katrina. I miss her, you know?”
I wasn’t up to watching his wistful expression change when I explained that he might be the only person within fifty miles to be sorry she was gone. “I’m afraid I’m alone here at the moment.”
His shoulders drooped, and he extended his hand for a farewell handshake. “Right. Some other time. I’ll just…” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and turned to go, then hesitated before looking back. “I’m—I’m looking for a job. I’m a writer,” he added with gentle pride, “but you know how it is; I need a day job, too. I don’t know much about computers, but I have some bookkeeping experience if you use QuickBooks, and I’ll do just about anything.” He looked at me hopefully, and honestly, he reminded me of a fledgling swan, all fluffy and helpless.
“I already have an accountant,” I said, and his face fell.
“Sure, I understand. It’s been tough finding work that I can leave behind at the end of the day, so I have the time and energy to do my writing. I volunteer at St. Christopher’s shelter a few hours a week, but I really need to find a paying job.”
I thought of Nat, who wanted to hire someone for The Coffee, and then had almost instant second thoughts. He was shy and almost comically clumsy, and given all the steaming milk and hot coffee, an accident-prone barista could have a short, painful career. Although if his entry into Aromas was any indicator, Nat would be able to see him in action and make that judgment call.
“My friend Nat owns the coffee shop,” I said. “He might be
looking for someone.”
“That’s great. If he’s there now—” I nodded. “I’ll go along and talk to him.” He held out his hand and I shook it again, reflecting that most Americans would find all the handshaking funny—or be pulling out the hand sanitizer. I wondered if he’d picked up the habit in Europe, or if it was just another sign of nerves. He left, looking as if he’d shed ten years. I felt lighter myself, knowing that the lawsuit wasn’t going ahead. I telephoned my insurance company lawyer and gave her the news, although, lawyer-like, she said she’d wait for official notification before assuming anything.
Twenty minutes later, Melnik poked his head in the door as I was dealing with a store full of customers and gave me a dazzling smile and a thumbs-up. He looked happy, and I realized he’d looked woeful or nervous every time I’d seen him until that moment. I waved, and he went on his way. He was cute, if a man in his thirties can be cute. And with him on board at Nat’s, maybe I wouldn’t have to get up every morning at the crack of dawn.
I got a text from Nat: He’ll do but not my type. Next time send … I snorted. He’d added a photo of a shirtless Channing Tatum.
The next day, Melnik (“Call me Gavin”) stopped by to tell me he was apartment hunting, since he wouldn’t be staying on at Katrina’s apartment once it was folded into her estate. “I thought I’d start looking; it could take a while to find somewhere. This is a great neighborhood, but I need somewhere cheap, if that’s even possible.”
And I had an empty, ground floor studio. He arranged to move in the following month, when he would need to move out of Katrina’s apartment. He said he didn’t own much—a few small pieces of furniture, some cardboard boxes, and a couple of garment bags would be easy to move over from the other side of the Gardens. I was relieved that the studio’s Murphy bed meant he’d have somewhere comfortable to sleep, at least. I waived the security deposit, but he said he could come up with the first and last month’s rent. I did an Internet search—I’m not a complete idiot—but he wasn’t a convicted serial killer or a sex offender, and he wasn’t on the city’s unofficial landlord blacklist. He was volunteering at St. Christopher’s, his credit rating was surprisingly good, and I knew where he worked. Fair enough. San Francisco is a rent-control city, and in any event Fabian Gardens landlords were restricted in the amount of rent we could charge by a provision in the community covenants. As part of her campaign to be a thorn in everyone’s side, Katrina had fought us on that. She’d lost, and hadn’t been happy. The rules meant that the community was more economically diverse than some other places in the city. We did have a few millionaires, including a dot-com baby millionaire who, rumor had it, had furnished her place with nothing but vintage pinball machines. But we also had a number of blue-collar retirees who had lived here for decades, and some solidly middle-class families and couples, along with twentysomethings who shared some of the smaller apartments or lived solo in a studio while they took classes at USF, Hastings, or San Francisco State.